


Ode to Power

by owlmoose



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Big Bang, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, F/M, Post-Game(s), Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Women In Power, based on fanmix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/pseuds/owlmoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anora becomes Queen, again. Her story as she faces down the end of the Blight, the problems of an untrained king, and an unpleasant surprise from Orlais.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ode to Power

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a fanmix about Queen Anora and her rise to power by LaFemmeDarla. Tracklist, cover art, and link to download [here](http://lafemmedarla.tumblr.com/post/57439796428/woman-king-a-queen-anora-fanmix-created-for-the). This mix is excellent, and it was very influential on not just the content but the tone of this story, so I highly recommend you check it out.

The heavy wooden door closed behind Anora, muting the chatter of the Landsmeet at last. Three steps into her office, she paused and gave herself a moment to breathe. Already it felt like a lifetime ago since she had entered the room and spoken against her father to fulfill her improbable bargain with Eamon Guerrin, while nursing the hope that she might maintain her position while preserving his life. 

A vain hope, in the end. She closed her eyes and drew her hand down over her face in an attempt to wipe the image from her mind: his body, limp on the floor, his head… She shuddered, shying away from the image. At least it had been quick. And he had seemed ready. She took small comfort in that. 

Erlina came up to her, a water goblet in hand, and Anora took it for a grateful sip. "It is well, my lady? You are still queen?" 

"I am. Eamon and the Wardens kept their word. When the day is won, I-- we, that is, Alistair and I together, will be crowned." She took another long swallow, then handed the goblet back to Erlina. "My father was executed." 

"I'm sorry." Erlina lowered her eyes. "It is a grievous loss." 

"Thank you." Anora shook her head. "I knew when I walked in there that he might not walk out with me. I…" She let out a long breath, steeled her hands. "I was prepared." 

"Of course, my lady." Erlina sat down in the armchair as Anora walked to her desk. "Is it what you thought it would be?" she asked. "Being Queen, ruling this land? When your father told you that someday you would marry Cailan?" 

Anora thought back to that day, so many years ago. She had been young, just seven years old, when her father returned from that particular trip to Denerim. He often traveled to the capital, and every day that he was gone, she would sit on the roof of the keep at Gwaren to watch for his return. She would perch on a corner, legs tossed over the edge, and kick the stone with impatient heels, not daring to look away from the road that would bring him home to her and to Mother; with her eagle eyes, she could see the dust rising from the horizon long before the hounds started baying to welcome their master back. As soon as she spied the evidence of his return, she would jump up and ran down the stairs, hurrying to meet him at the door. 

Most days, he would open the door, kiss her mother on the cheek, then swing Anora up into his arms, but not this time. She knew something was different from the moment he walked in the door, from the set of his shoulders, the weary lines on his face, even before he knelt on the floor before her and took her hands. 

"My dear daughter," he said, and already she was tall enough that he had to look up at her. His dark eyes were serious, and he did not smile. "Would you like to be queen some day?" 

Behind her, Celia took a sharp breath, and Loghain caught her eye over Anora's shoulder, gave her a quick nod. Anora thought on that exchange many times as she grew older, but in the moment she'd been too focused on her own surprise to notice it. "Queen?" she said. "Me? How can I be queen?" 

Loghain tightened his grip on her hands. "I have arranged it with King Maric. When you're both old enough, you will marry Prince Cailan, and then someday, when Maric passes on, you will be queen." 

"But what if I don't want to be queen?" she asked. 

Loghain lowered his eyes. "Do you think I wanted to be a teyrn?" he replied. "You will be queen because I ask it of you, and I ask it because King Maric asks it." 

Anora had bowed her head. "Yes, Father." 

He smiled at her and stood, giving her a gentle hug. "You will become the greatest queen Ferelden has ever known. I'm convinced of it." 

And so she had followed him to Denerim and become a good student of history and politics. She was good at it, and she enjoyed it, too. Cailan was charming and handsome -- perhaps a little too handsome, certainly much too charming. But he was always kind to her, and if there were whispers of other women, it was enough to know that she was the true power behind the throne. 

But Erlina knew this story already; it was not, Anora thought, about the past that her maidservant and friend was asking. She was asking about the future, in which Anora would remain queen, but with another king at her side -- the third she had suffered, if her father's brief and ill-fated regency counted. Anora lowered her eyes and took a long, slow breath, pushing back against the grief that stabbed through her heart once again. She had told Erlina that she was prepared, but who was ever truly ready to watch their father's death? The only way to keep her tears at bay was to be angry with him. Why had he made such foolish choices? Why hadn't he trusted her with the truth, and the throne? She could have saved him, if only his actions hadn't given Eamon the excuse to call a Landsmeet. Even then, if the Warden… 

"It doesn't matter," she said, standing and moving to the window that overlooked the interior courtyard. She rested her hand on the cool glass. "I never dreamed of being a princess from some tale, locked in the top of a tower, watching as crowds of admirers tossed rose petals at my feet. Power is better. Cailan allowed me that power." She shrugged. "Alistair seems biddable enough. He knows who the true power behind the throne was, and if he's as intelligent as he seems behind the inappropriate humor, he'll let matters lie as they were." 

"As you say, my Queen." Erlina bowed. "Shall we prepare for the trip to Redcliffe?" 

"Shortly." Anora replied. She lowered her head, and forced the next words out through a thickening throat. "First, I must visit the Chantry and see to my father's pyre." 

-x- 

A drop of sweat trickled down the inside of Anora's left arm as she lifted it over her head, turning around so Erlina could fasten her into her armor. She caught sight of her quiver as she turned. The irritation stabbed again, and she let out a sigh. 

"What is it, my lady?" 

Anora shook her head. "I wish I could take up my bow and join the archers. I'm a better shot than half the men in the lines." 

Erlina cinched one buckle and moved on to the next, not pausing in her work. "I understand, but you need to keep safe. With King Alistair at the vanguard..." 

Anora waved her hand in a circle with another grunt. "Yes, yes. Only three Grey Wardens remain in Ferelden, so we need them all to face the archdemon. If something happens to the king, at least the queen will survive." A fat lot of good that had done Ferelden the last time its king had led its army at the vanguard, but even Erlina didn't need to hear her being that cynical. And the plan had its advantages: it would solve many of her problems if King Alistair never returned from the battle of Denerim. But she couldn't quite bring herself to hope that he took an axe to the back of his neck. "It's only logical. But that doesn't make it any easier to be stuck here, in this stifling hot tent, a mere hour from Denerim as my city goes up in flames." 

"I understand." Erlina fastened down the last buckle, then stepped back. "Your helm, m'lady?" 

Anora shook her head. "The fighting is distant enough, and I would rather the soldiers be able to see my face. It will be to hand if the tide of battle changes." She pulled on her gloves, then looked at her bow again. "But I will go armed. Better to have a weapon and not need it, yes?" Plus the knife in her boot, in case the darkspawn got too close. 

"Of course," Erlina said. She handed Anora her bow, then her quiver, and Anora slung both over her back before leaving the tent. 

Outside, it was blessedly cooler, a light wind blowing from the west, carrying the last rays of sunset. And here Eamon waited, pacing back and forth across the top of the hill they had chosen as the place to make their stand. He wore gleaming plate armor and a sword and the shield of Redcliffe on his back. As she approached, he turned to her with a respectful nod. 

"Your majesty," he said. "Here to survey the troops?" 

"And observe the battle, much as you are," she replied, inclining her head in return. "Erlina, the standard?" 

"Yes, m'lady." Erlina disappeared into the tent, and Anora turned to look over the valley. A thousand humans, dwarfs, and elves filled the valley floor, and she shook her head with wonder at the army so assembled, the vanguard almost to the city gates. 

"My lady?" Anora held out her hand, and Erlina gave her the staff, a long wooden pole topped with the banner of Ferelden. She lifted it high, then waved it pole back and forth so the gold and crimson banner could unfurl in the breeze, catching the last rays of sunset, before planting it in the ground. The army spread out beneath her let out a cheer, and she raised her hand in acknowledgement. Long odds, against all these darkspawn. But perhaps the day would still be theirs. 

-x- 

Was it only the next morning? It seemed an age had passed while Anora stood on the side of that hill, face composed into stone as she watched the distant carnage, lit only by pale moonlight and the fires of Denerim, men and women fighting and killing and dying, for Ferelden, for all Thedas. And yet, shade of pink had just appeared on the eastern horizon when a pillar of light pierced the sky, brighter than the sun. 

Erlina grasped Anora's arm. "My lady! Is that…" 

Anora shaded her eyes against the sudden brightness, steadied herself against the standard. "Eamon! Do you see that?" she called out. "It seems to be coming from Fort Drakon." 

Eamon turned his eyes from the city gates. "Maker grant it be so." 

The pillar collapsed, then exploded into a sideways blast that ripped through the air. Before she could react, a guard pushed her to the ground as the shockwave passed overhead. Next to her, the standard fell, the banner mere inches from her face, and the ground rumbled. A second passed, then another, in total silence. And then: the screams of darkspawn, the cheering of men. Anora scrambled to her feet, standard in her hand. In the valley below, the darkspawn were withdrawing, making a mad rush to the south, and the surviving soldiers gave chase. 

"Ferelden!" Anora shouted, as loudly as she could, lifting the standard and waving it over her head. Eamon held his shield high and echoed her cry: "Ferelden! Long live Ferelden!" And the chant was taken up all around them as the darkspawn ran and the masses cheered, one moment of celebration before the long work of collecting the dead might begin. 

Finally, Eamon turned to her. "Your majesty, do you wish to get some rest?" 

Anora shook her head. "I would head back to the palace with as much haste as we might. I wish to assess the damage to the city and its people. As well as its king. And I'm sure you will want to discover Teagan's fate." 

"Yes, of course," Eamon said with a brisk nod. "I will arrange an escort. Guards!" he added, snapping his fingers. 

And so they picked their way across the bloody battlefield, Anora carrying the royal standard back into the city, pausing to greet soldiers and militia, to thank them for their service, to hold a dying man's hand. The sun was well into the sky when they arrived at the city gates, and then it took another hour to pick their way through the ruins and flames to the palace. At the entrance, she was met by a member of the dwarf delegation, a stout fellow with a heavy axe and a tattooed face. 

"Your majesty," he said with a bow. "Good to see you made it." 

"You as well, Ser Dwarf," Anora replied. "Tell me, how went the battles within the city?" 

The dwarf shrugged. "Well enough to win. The archdemon is dead, and the Wardens say that's broken the Horde. The rest of the darkspawn seem to have cut and run." 

"Our experience outside the city, as well," Anora said. "So, the Wardens are alive?" 

"Two of them are," said the dwarf. "King Alistair is just inside. Lady Aeducan lives, too, but she got pretty banged up. She's with the healers. That Orlesian fellow, though, he died in battle." 

Anora glanced up at Eamon, who had let out a sigh of relief at Alistair's name. "We should go find the king," he said. 

"Agreed." Anora looked back at the dwarf. "Can you take us to Alistair?" 

"Sure thing, ma'am. Follow me." 

Alistair was, as promised, not far inside the palace, sitting in the entry room to the Landsmeet. His right arm was encased in bandages, and numerous cuts and bruises marred his face, but he seemed whole enough otherwise, and he rose to greet her. "Your majesty. Good to see you're all right." 

"Yes, thank you." Anora put her hands behind her back. "And you, as well." It was at least half-true. If also half a lie. "So, the archdemon is dead?" 

Alistair nodded. "Dead and gone. And-- dead," he added, limply. "The darkspawn are in full retreat, and will not return in force." He glanced at the doorway into the city. "The city-- well, I wouldn't call it destroyed, but it's bad. I presume you saw what's left of the city gates?" Anora nodded, remembering the splintered ruin she'd passed on her way in. "The market square was burned near to the ground, and the Alienage didn't fare much better." He waved his left hand around in a circle. "As you can see, the palace came through pretty well. Thanks to your men, Eamon -- they fought valiantly, to protect this place and all the nobles and servants who holed up here. But Fort Drakon--" he lowered his eyes and shook his head. "It stands, but without a man or woman left alive. We got there too late. I'm sorry." 

Anora sucked in a breath. Denerim's militia, gone? It would take years to rebuild that fighting force, and that was only one of the resources they had lost. Hard times were upon them. "A terrible loss. But you stopped the archdemon. That's the important thing." 

"The only thing." Alistair glanced over his shoulder. "Make sure to thank Sereda. She landed the killing blow." He lowered his eyes. "And she won't be here much longer." 

"She has survived?" Eamon asked, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. 

Alistair responded with another nod. "But she's not staying. Someone needs to report to the Grey Wardens, so she'll be leaving for the border as soon as she's well enough to travel. Should be three or four days, according to the healer." 

"Well then, we'll just have to make sure to thank her before she goes," Anora said. 

"Yes." Alistair stood, his motion deliberate and slow. "But for now, I need to rest awhile." 

"Of course," Anora said. "We'll have a servant show you to Cailan's-- your chambers." 

Alistair's half smile was a wry one. "I guess they would be mine, wouldn't they? Thank you, Anora. I'll see you later. Good day, Eamon." 

"Wait, my boy, I'll walk with you." Eamon took a place at Alistair's side, half-holding him up as they walked down the hall together; Anora waited, then went the other direction, into the Landsmeet chamber. She wanted nothing more than a long nap, but there were hours of reports to get through, first. It would keep. 

-x- 

Three days later, Anora found herself rising with the sun, fixing her hair, and putting on her best dress. She met Alistair in the throne room -- his wounds tended, his armor gleaming -- and together they approached the dais, side by side, though not hand in hand, and received the blessing of the Reverend Mother. Speeches were given, a parade held through the ruined streets, the state dinner served, the Warden Sereda given an honor guard for her send-off, and at last night fell again. Anora changed into her dressing gown but left her hair up, then opened the door to the royal parlor. 

The fire crackled in the fireplace, casting its shadows on the wall, painting a warm light over Alistair, who sat in the corner of the sofa, staring into the flames. He, too, had changed out of his finery, into a green shirt, tan jerkin, and black pants. How many nights had Anora seen Cailan sitting in that same spot, his hair down, a glass of wine in his hand? So strange to see Alistair there instead, the planes of his face similar but his expression so different. His hands tented in front of his chin, as though he were deep in thought. 

She cleared her throat, and he turned to face her. "Anora," he said. "Where did-- err, I mean, good evening." 

"Good evening." She walked over to the sideboard and poured herself two fingers of whiskey before turning to face him, and to answer the question he had started to ask. "We share this parlor. That door leads to my bedroom." She took a sip from the glass, closing her eyes to savor the burn on her throat, the warmth spreading to her fingertips. "Something to drink?" Alistair shook his head, and she made her way to the wingtip chair next to the couch, on the far edge from where Alistair sat. 

He straightened up and looked at her. "So." 

"So." Anora sat down on the edge of the chair, set her drink on the end table, and folded her hands in her lap. "We have some things to discuss." 

Alistair nodded stiffly. "So we do." He sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm no good at this. The talking part, I mean. I always left that to… anyway, I suppose I'll have to get better at it eventually." 

"Eventually," Anora agreed. "It will come with practice. If you want it to." She picked up her drink for another sip. "That does not answer the question of what happens tonight, however." 

Alistair's head snapped around, his eyebrows raised. "That was direct." 

She lifted her glass in ironic salute. "I have found directness is the best way to cut tension." He lowered his eyes with half a smile. "There is no sense in putting this off. The conversation, or what we both know must follow." The smile faded, but he nodded. "If we sleep separately too many nights, people will talk." 

"I know. I just wish…" He let out another sigh, smaller this time, and his eyes focused on the fire again, his thoughts far afield. His next words were spoken in a near-whisper. "But you're right." 

Anora leaned back in her seat, glass balanced between her fingers. "You loved her?" 

"I love her." He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. When he looked up, drawing his fingers down over his cheeks, they were damp. "And I-- I expect I always will. But it was over from the moment I walked out of the Landsmeet chamber." He looked at Anora then, not bothering to hide the tears he had shed, though his eyes were already clear. "And you? Do you grieve for Cailan still?" 

The boldness of the question surprised her, and she recoiled from him. She did not want to talk about Cailan. Not here in the parlor they had once shared, not on the couch where they had often sat, chatted about their day and the kingdom, and occasionally, after a bit too much drink, made love. Not with this boy, so like and still unlike her late husband. But Alistair had answered her with honesty, and she owed him the same. "Yes," she said stiffly. "I do. I loved him, and I miss him. You must not imagine that I am any more ready to move on than you are." She tossed back the rest of her drink and stood. "But for the good of the realm, I will do what I must." 

Alistair looked up at her, a wry smile on his face. "And that includes me, I suppose." 

Anora clenched her jaw as hot blood rushed to her forehead. She could see the exact moment Alistair realized his joke had fallen flat, smile fading as he stood up as well, cheeks stained red. "Sorry," he muttered. 

She crossed her arms and spoke through gritted teeth. "It will keep for a night. Be ready for tomorrow's council meeting." And without another word she whirled and walked out, not caring if the door slammed behind her. 

-x- 

Sleep did not come easily. Anora lay in the bed and thought not of Alistair, but of Cailan -- the very face she had been trying so hard to put out of her mind. Her bright, sunny, foolish boy. It had been months since she had shed any tears for Cailan, but tonight she screwed her eyes tightly shut and fought them back, struggling against the memory of his face, his easy smile, his warm hands on the small of her back. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and swallowed hard. How dare Alistair remind her, when she had worked so hard to forget? 

She threw herself onto her back with a huff, opened her eyes, and watched the dark ceiling as the hours crept by. 

-x- 

When she rose the next morning, half-exhausted, Anora stepped into whirlwind of activity: meeting upon meeting, followed by a long closed-door session with Alistair and Eamon, getting Alistair up to speed on the business of governing. 

"But wait." Alistair frowned and held the sheet of paper at arms' length from his face. "If we have trade treaties with Kirkwall, why do we need them with Starkhaven and Ansburg and all the rest? They're all the Free Marches." 

"Yes, but each city in the Marches runs their own trade," Eamon said. "There's no central 'Free Marches' authority. So we must make separate agreements with the viscount of Kirkwall, Prince Vael of Starkhaven, and so forth." 

Alistair's brow wrinkled in confusion, and Anora wanted to throw the inkwell in his face. Both of their faces, in truth: why had Eamon not seen to Alistair's education earlier, groomed the bastard to be a worthy heir rather than making him a stable boy before shuffling him off to the Chantry? But no, instead he neglected his foster son, leaving him ignorant of things he should have learned as a schoolboy. Unless Maric had ordered that Alistair be kept in the dark. She wasn't sure which possibility was worse. 

Her hand curled around the heavy glass weight as she pictured Eamon with a dent in his forehead, black ink dripping down his face. Then, with a deep breath, she let go. "Would you like to spend time on this treaty, or should I go over the various leaders of the Marcher city states again?" 

"Let me give it another go." Alistair ran his hand over the map, pointing to each city in turn. "The Vaels rule Starkhaven, an elected Viscount in Kirkwall \-- currently the Dumar family, a merchant prince in Tantervale…" 

He settled in to the drone of names and places, a very similar litany to the one she had heard Cailan recite at half of Alistair's age; Anora sighed and leaned hard on her elbows. This was going to be a very long day. 

-x- 

Anora rose from the table, smiling through gritted teeth. Duke Richel, the emissary from Jader, smiled back at her with a small bow, tight and insincere. "It has been a pleasure working with your Majesties." 

Alistair reached out with a hearty handshake, and Anora winced. "Thank you, Duke Richel, for coming so far and being so open to our conversation." 

"Open, yes." Anora flashed her teeth at Richel. "I'm sure the Empress will listen to our counterproposal with every consideration." 

"Every consideration that you gave to hers," Richel replied smoothly. "I will take your response to our embassy with as much haste as it warrants." He bowed again to Alistair, then placed a cursory kiss on the back of Anora's hand before strolling out of the room. 

Once the door closed behind him, Anora huffed out an angry breath. She snatched the treaty proposal up from the table and left the room. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Alistair's friendly smile melting into a furrow of confusion. His footsteps continued behind her as she stalked through the door into the hallway and into Alistair's office. She flung the pile of papers onto his desk, then whirled to face him. "It is not to be borne!" 

The confusion transformed into annoyance, and Alistair closed the door with a hard sigh, then leaned on it. "What did I do now?" 

Anora advanced on him with a sneer. "I ruled this nation in the name of Maric's heir for five years; shall I be forced to do it again for his bastard? You are little better than a millstone around my neck! Curse the politics that forced me into this corner!" 

Alistair crossed his arms, eyes narrowing at her, and part of Anora registered the improvement -- he'd have cowered away from such harsh words when he'd first been crowned three months ago. "You'd be a lot worse than backed into a corner without me. You needed me." 

"No, I needed your pet Warden," Anora shot back. "Maker knows why she had the Landsmeet eating out of her hand, but she did. She could have convinced them to accept me as sole monarch. But no, she had to have _you_." 

"You think so?" Alistair took a step toward her. "And you know this… how? If she could have put whoever she wanted on the throne, why you? Why not me?" 

"Because she knew…" Anora faltered, checked the accusation she had been about to make. 

But Alistair knew what she had been going to say, and he glowered at her. "Because she knew that I'm an idiot who has no idea how to rule a kingdom. Go ahead and say it. I know it's what you think. And what Arl Eamon thinks, and for all I know King Maric thought it, too. You know who didn't think that? Sereda. She believed in me, and she helped me to believe in myself." He drew himself up to his full height, eyes snapping. "I know it's probably too much to ask you to believe in me as well. But it would still be nice if you'd try." 

Anora could make no response to this outburst; her mind still whirling, Alistair continued. "At the very least, I would appreciate you not treating me like a child in front of other people. The same respect I accord to you. That, I think, is not too much to ask." He sat down in his chair and folded his hands over the desk. "Now, shall we discuss this issue like adults?" 

"Only if you can tell me what you did wrong." 

"Taking Richel's proposal at face value?" Alistair finally smiled. "Or at least, appearing to." 

Anora raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me that was a strategy?" 

Alistair nodded. "It's a trick some templars use when they interrogate apostates. One of them takes the hardline, the other is more sympathetic. Then, when the nice templar has lulled the apostate into trusting them, the other swoops in with the hard-hitting question." 

"So… you're the sympathetic negotiator." 

"And you're the hardliner." Alistair chuckled. "Could make us a pretty effective team, right? But only if you play along." His face softened into an apologetic expression. "So I should have made it more clear what I was doing. Sorry about that." 

"It's… unorthodox. But it might work." Anora sighed. "For now, though, I think I need a walk." 

Alistair checked the clock. "No dinner?" 

Anora shook her head. "Your explanation helps, but I still find I need air rather than dinner or company. If you could make my excuses?" Without waiting for his assent, she turned and left the room. Erlina was waiting by the door. "I wish to take a turn through the gardens. If you could fetch my cloak?" 

"Right away, my lady." Erlina bowed and headed for Anora's rooms; Anora took the stairs, slowly, and considered everything Alistair had said. 

-x- 

By the time Anora and Erlina returned, night had fallen, and it was well past suppertime. They had taken a long stroll through the city, following some of the lesser-known byways, disguised by hooded cloaks. The exercise had cleared her head, as had the opportunity to look around Denerim, remind herself of the people she fought for. Listening to their conversations, watching the rebuilding slowly progress: all helped increased her resolve. 

As they mounted the stairway, Anora stopped Erlina with a hand to the shoulder. "Thank you for indulging me," she said. 

Erlina inclined her head. "Shall I help you get ready for bed?" 

She shook her head. "I can manage, and I think I want to be by myself. You are dismissed for the evening." 

"If you are certain." Erlina touched Anora's arm. "I'm glad to have been of help." 

"Always." Anora smiled at Erlina, watched her walk down the darkened hallway alone. Truly alone, she realized -- there was no guard at either of their doors. Unusual, but perhaps they were out on patrol. And the door was safely locked. She unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. 

Her rooms were quiet and dark, the fireplace already turned down for the night, all the lamps but one doused. In the silence her harsh words to Alistair echoed, along with his tart response, and then the near-detente that had followed. She took a few steps in the direction of their shared chamber, but she stopped herself at the door. No, best to leave it for the morning. Better to negotiate this new working relationship in a more refreshed state. 

So instead she shot the deadbolt and walked over to her bed, stopping halfway to take off her boots. As she leaned over to undo the lacing, something caught her eye: a flash of silver, beneath her bed, and she frowned. Had she dropped a trinket, a bit of jewelry? And then she froze, because it was the edge of a blade, glistening in the dim light. She closed her eyes to take stock of her surroundings, feel the edges of the room and the space around her, just as Erlina had taught her. That was the only reason she heard the soft footstep, the telltale breath, and as she stood, she threw an elbow back, jabbing her unknown assailant in the stomach. 

"Oof!" The voice was male, low pitched. Before Anora could whirl around and learn anything more about her attacker, his arms were around her, pinning her down. 

"Help! Guards!" She shouted the words as he wrapped a hand around her mouth; she struggled, lifting herself off the ground in hopes of overbalancing them both. It worked, and they fell backwards, his body slamming into the floor, her head bouncing off the leather armor of his chest. Stomping his thigh with her still-booted foot, she tried to squirm away, but her attacker held fast. Meanwhile, the second attacker had slithered out from beneath her bed, and now stood over her, a knife in each hand. Anora just had time to register him as an elf before she kicked outward, catching him in the knees, and he stumbled away. She kicked again, but he was out of reach; instead, she wriggled her head around enough to bite down on the hand that held her. 

The man howled and loosened his grip enough for her to scramble away, rolling to her hands and knees. She jumped to her feet and kicked him hard in the stomach, and then the elf was on her, one arm around her stomach, a blade biting into her cheek. She gritted her teeth against the sudden lance of pain. "Stop struggling, and this will go easier," he muttered, in a clear Orlesian accent. 

She lifted her elbow again, trying to catch his knife arm, kicking out again in hopes of keeping the first man down. And then, with a terrific cracking sound, the door to the parlor burst open, Alistair's shield breaking the wood into a shower of splinters. 

The first man was up, sword in hand, but Alistair swept the blade aside with his own and bashed him in the face with the shield, and he fell to the floor. And then he was on the elf, sword at his neck. "Let the queen go, or die!" he growled. 

The elf dropped his knife. "I surrender," he said. 

"Good decision." Alistair grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away from Anora, and then turned to her, eyes wide with worry. "Are you all right?" 

Anora touched her cheek, came away with blood on her fingers. "Just the cut," she said, steeling her voice, stilling the wobble that threatened to collapse her knees. 

"Erlina, send for the healers, then get the queen to safety." Alistair touched her arm. "I'm glad you're okay." 

"Thank you," she said, and then Erlina's hand was on her arm, leading her into the parlor, away from the murderous glow that was coming in to Alistair's eyes as he looked at the elf. Halfway the door she stopped, taking a second to steady herself against the doorframe. "Wait," she murmured, and then, with a deep breath, she turned back around. "Wait. I want to question him." 

"Your wounds..." 

"Will keep." Anora pulled her handkerchief from her pocket, folded it up, and placed it against her cheek, then stalked toward the assassin. Someone had turned up the lamps, so she could see him more clearly now -- he was an elf, all right, with dark hair and pale eyes. Alistair backed him to the edge of her bed and sat him down, hand still wrapped around his upper arm. "You," she said. "Who sent you?" 

The elf shrugged. "Some noble in Jader. I do not know his name and did not ask. I was paid to kill you, not to ask questions." He lifted a toe in the direction of the dead man on the floor. "He was in charge." 

Alistair and Anora turned in unison to consider their lost source of information. She heaved a quick sigh, then looked back at the elf. "Well, perhaps a night in the tower will help jog your memory. Guards?" Colm, the guard normally stationed at her door, arrived at her side, and she glared up at him. "We will discuss the question of your earlier absence at another time. For now, take him away, but keep him alive." 

Colm nodded. "Your majesty." He grabbed the elf's other arm, Alistair reluctantly letting go, and yanked him roughly to his feet. "Come on, scum. You'll get better treatment than you deserve." He gathered the elf's arms behind him and marched him out of the room, while two other guards gathered up the much larger dead body and followed them out, shutting the door behind them. 

Finally, Anora allowed her knees to weaken, and she sat down on a chair near the fireplace. Alistair came to her side and rested a strong hand on her shoulder. "You should really see a healer," he said, gently. "You won't want that to scar." 

Anora pressed the handkerchief back to her cheek. "I want to think this through first. Who has done this, and why? Can we track it back to Celine? Or Richel -- the elf did mention Jader. And how did they get into my quarters unseen?" She glanced over at Alistair. "Why target me and not you?" 

"That last one, I might have some insight on." Alistair grimaced. "I wasn't going to tell you this. I was afraid it would cause you needless grief. But, well." He shrugged. "It might be relevant. During the Blight, we learned that Cailan had been in negotiations with Celine to divorce you and marry her instead. This might be someone's way of getting that same end result." 

A small light exploded behind Anora's eyes as a year's worth of pieces fell into place, and she swallowed hard. So, the rumors had been true. And her father had, perhaps, not been as paranoid about Orlesian influence as everyone thought. "Who knew of this?" she asked, steadying her voice. 

Alistair shook his head. "I don't know who else saw those letters. They were inside Cailan's personal chest at Ostagar. But-- well, I don't know if there's a direct connection. But there was also a letter from Eamon, encouraging Cailan to find another wife. A fertile wife." He shook his head with a noise of disgust. 

"Eamon." She fairly hissed the name and narrowed her eyes. "And has he attempted to convince you of the same plan?" 

"He won't." Alistair met her gaze with guileless eyes and shook his head. "Never. No matter what happens, whether we have children or not, I will not set you aside, Anora. Ferelden needs you." 

Anora snorted. "And whence comes this change of heart?" 

"It's not---" Alistair stood up and walked in a tight circle, then turned back around to face her. "Anora." He sank to one a knee before her, a hand resting on her thigh, and once again she thought of her father, but this time the image came from her childhood: kneeling before her, wearing that same earnest expression, as he told her that she would become queen. "I need to tell you something. But you must swear that you will never tell another living soul." 

"Are these Grey Warden secrets?" Anora raised an eyebrow, and Alistair nodded. "All right. I swear by the Maker, I will keep the secret safe." 

He lowered his head, the firelight glinting off his hair. "Grey Wardens -- and I am still a Warden, renounced vows or no -- Grey Wardens don't grow old. Not only because it's a hard life, fighting darkspawn. It's the darkspawn taint, itself." 

"I thought Grey Wardens were immune to the taint," Anora said. "Isn't that why you're able to fight darkspawn?" 

"The taint's effects are slowed in us, but it's still a death sentence." He looked up at her. "In a few more years -- perhaps ten, perhaps twenty, not likely more than that -- the taint will catch up with me, and I'll need to go." He turned away again. "So Ferelden will need you, sooner or later, to rule. To raise our children, if they come. And you won't need to put up with me for all that much longer." 

Anora rested a hand on top of his head. "Alistair--" 

"Don't worry," he said, pulling away from her touch as he stood. "If we haven't had children by then, I'll get the Landsmeet organized to accept you as sole queen. I won't put you through the same hell that Cailan did, I promise." 

She stood and went to his side. "And losing a husband? A partner? Can you promise I will not face that again?" Her hand sought his, her fingers curling around his palm. 

Alistair's head swiveled toward her, eyes wide with surprise, confusion-- hope? "Anora?" 

Instead of replying in words, she tightened her grip around his hand and kissed him. 

He froze for a long second, then bent his head close and kissed her back, lips soft and yielding. His other hand came up to cradle her cheek, and she closed her eyes. How was he so gentle with her? He broke the kiss but still held her eyes, her hand, her face. "Don't tell me that you're going to miss me," he said with a small smile, his eyes soft. 

Anora leaned into his hand. "I'm… growing accustomed to you. Shall we leave it at that?" 

"For now." Alistair leaned back in, touching their foreheads together, then kissed her again. "Thank you." 

He pulled away, but she kept hold of his hand. Suddenly, she found that she did not want to be alone. "Stay." 

Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Tonight?" 

She nodded. "It's well past time." She pulled him close again, kissed him again, tasted a heady mix of wine and adrenaline. He wrapped his arms around her and carefully kissed her back. 

"But, your cheek--" he murmured against her lips. 

Anora smiled. "A little scar never hurt anyone. You carry enough of your own; I can bear one more. Now come here." 

-x- 

A shaft of warm light on her face woke her; she blinked and stretched her hands overhead, and only then remembered that, for the first time in over a year, she was not alone in the bed. 

Anora rolled over onto her side to observe the sleeping face of her husband, the golden dawn soft across his features, his strong nose, his hair -- still worn short, and redder than Cailan's, especially in this morning light. Loathe to disturb his sleep, Anora slid out of the bed and pulled on her dressing gown. The previous night had been pleasant -- Alistair lacked finesse, but he made it up with enthusiasm, and Anora smiled at the memory of his kisses, tentative but eager; the way he hesitated before every touch, as if to ensure that she was ready for each one. She should never have waited so long to invite him here. 

"Mrph." Alistair rolled onto his side, then opened his eyes. "G'morning," he said with a smile. 

"Good morning," Anora replied. "Did you sleep well?" 

"Splendidly, in fact." Alistair yawned as he sat up. "You?" 

"Better than expected," she replied, and he chuckled. He rose from the bed, still naked, and wrapped his hands around her waist before leaning in for a kiss. He got halfway there, and then she pulled away. 

"Too much?" he asked. 

"A bit-- too familiar," she admitted. "I-- I won't pretend I didn't enjoy myself last night. You were… more than adequate." He grinned, and she smiled back, touching his nose. "But it will still take me time to get used to this-- this--" she twirled her hand around a circle over her head as she sought the words. He stepped back and waited, and she took a deep breath before continuing. "To get used to thinking of you as an ally, rather than an adversary." Anora looked at him, and he nodded. 

"Same here," he said. "Well, no rush. We have-- well, not all the time in the world." He flicked his eyes downward, and his words to Anora last night -- _"Ten years, perhaps twenty, not likely more"_ \-- came rushing back. "But enough that we don't need to push it. Just let me know what you need." She nodded, and he dared a quick kiss on her temple. "I'll see you in court." He walked through the ruined door and left her alone. 

-x- 

Bathed and dressed, Anora sat down at her desk, a cup of tea in her hand. A small stack of papers rested in the middle of the desk, a handwritten note in Alistair's neat, Chantry-taught penmanship sitting atop them. As she lifted it up to read, a rap came at her door; she set the paper down to see the entrance of Edric, the captain of the palace guard, whom she had summoned not ten minutes before. "Your majesty," he said, bowing deeply at the waist. 

"Thank you for coming so quickly." Anora sat down in her chair and folded her hands over the papers. "Do you have any information for me?" 

"Our interrogation was fruitful," Edric said. "But first, allow me to convey my apologies. There was a commotion in the throne room that called most of the guards away from their posts, including Colm. But once they gathered, there was no one there. We think now that they must have bribed a servant to create a distraction." 

Anora sighed. "I suppose one can only expect so much loyalty from the servants. Do you believe the Guard to be compromised?" 

Edric shook his head. "It's hard to know with complete certainty, of course. But I'd be surprised if any of my men or women were bought off. We did leave one guard at your door, a new recruit; he was found unconscious in one of the nearby rooms. Clocked on the back of the head, poor sod. Your assassins would seem to be infiltration specialists." 

"So it would seem." Anora shook her head. "We should set ourselves to preventing another incursion." She thought back on the Warden and her companions -- one of whom, she recalled, was a refugee from the Antivan Crows. Perhaps Alistair would know how to contact him. "I might have someone who can help with that," she said. "Let me get back to you." 

"Very good, Majesty." Edric bowed again. "Now, about our uninvited guest. He professes to know nothing about his client, except that he was Orlesian, and nobility. The mission was to get in, kill you, and get out, with no other deaths on their hands, especially not the king's. Apparently the client was very firm on that point: no harm to King Alistair." 

Anora's heart sunk; that tidbit fit all too well with the theory Alistair had set forth the night before. "But no name." 

"No name," Edric confirmed. "Only a description. It might be Richel, but it also might not. I'll ask among the staff, and our agents in the Embassy, but for now I would avoid making any specific accusations. We can justify placing a heavier guard on Richel, but it's not enough evidence to evict him from the country." 

Anora leaned back in her chair. "Anything else?" 

"One thing," Edric said. "We searched the body of the elf's accomplice, the man King Alistair killed. He carried little of consequence… except for this." He pulled a ring out of his pocket. "The seal on this ring is the signet of Empress Celine. Whether this signals her involvement or an attempt to frame her, I can only guess. Even less to go on than the elf's testimony. But I felt you should know." 

He dropped the ring in the palm of her hand; it was heavy, made of brass, with the unmistakable seal of Orlais on the top. She turned it over, but there were no further markings. "Thank you, Edric," she said. 

He bowed and backed out of the room. Anora set the ring down on her desk, then raised her voice. "Erlina?" 

"Yes, my lady." The elf stepped out from the shadows where she had been waiting. 

"You heard all that, I presume." Erlina nodded, and Anora picked up the stack of papers on her desk. "Were you here when these were delivered?" 

"No, they arrived before I did." Erlina leaned forward to take a look. "Is that Alistair's writing? What does it say?" 

Anora smoothed the letter on her desk so that Erlina could read it. 

_Anora,_

__

_These are the letters I mentioned last night, the ones I found at Ostagar. Sorry I didn't tell you about them earlier. No point re-opening old wounds, or so I thought. But I suppose the wounds might not be so old after all. I hope the information is useful._

__

_\- A_

Erlina looked down at Anora with a frown. "Letters?" 

"Correspondence between Cailan and Celine, and a letter from Eamon." Anora pushed Alistair's note aside, and examined the letters. Three of them, the wax seals broken but still attached -- and one, the letter on the bottom of the stack, bore the seal of Redcliffe. "Proof that Cailan was in talks to ally with Celine. Via marriage." 

Erlina lifted a hand to her mouth. "So… it is true?" 

"The rumors you were hearing last year. Yes." Anora pressed her lips together into a hard line. "If he had not died at Ostagar, I might have been put aside. For my supposed infertility." 

"So then, do you think she was involved with this assassination?" 

"Possibly, though possibly not. Celine need not be directly involved for my death to bring her advantage." Anora fanned the letters across the desk, and held the ring up next to one of them The impression in the wax matched the sigil perfectly. "So we might be looking at anyone attempting to curry favor with her. Ideal, in fact, for my death to have no direct ties to her -- then she could court Alistair with a clear conscience." 

Erlina's eyes went wide. "Would King Alistair do the same as Cailan?" 

"No." Anora glanced at his note, remembered the night before. "He says he will not, and I trust him." She sighed, a hand creeping up to rub at her temple. "I must read these more closely, then decide what to do. Please, tell the cook that I will take breakfast in here?" 

"As you will, my lady." Erlina quickly bowed to her, then left her alone with the letters and her thoughts. 

-x- 

Not two hours later, Anora had called for an audience with Arl Eamon Guerrin in the throne room. He was there, waiting for her, when she walked in from her office. The message had gone out to Alistair as well, but she would not wait for him. This was her decision, one that was her right to make. Letter in her hands, head held high, she walked past the small throng -- somehow, word had gotten out to the minor nobility, and they were gathered in the galleries, murmuring with excitement, pointing at the cut on her cheek. She walked past them all, then took a seat on the throne, waiting for the soft chatter to die down. Edric was there, the elven assassin in irons at his side, and she exchanged nods with him. He was ready; so was she. 

"Arl Eamon Guerrin," she said. "Some correspondence has recently come to my attention, and I would like you to explain your involvement." 

Eamon drew himself up to his full height, eyes falling on the letter in her hand, his seal unmistakable on the edge. "Where did you get that?" 

"From the king," she replied. "The current king, and my husband. This letter, however, was written to my late husband. Perhaps you will recognize this passage." She unfolded the letter and began to read: 

_"While a son from both the Theirin and Mac Tir lines would unite Ferelden like no other, we must accept that perhaps this can never be. The queen approaches her thirtieth year and her ability to give you a child lessens with each passing month. I submit to you again that it might be time to put Anora aside."_

She looked up, narrowing her eyes. "Now tell me." She rose from the throne and rattled the paper fiercely. "What is the meaning of this?" 

Eamon lifted his chin. "An idea, your majesty. Nothing more. An idea that never came to fruition, so why does it matter?" 

"Because of this." Anora gestured to Edric, and he stepped forward, dragging the prisoner with him. "This assassin, and another like him, were hidden in my bedchamber. A gift from Orlais. I am only alive because of quick reflexes and the good luck that King Alistair was nearby." She lifted her chin, ensuring that no one could miss the wound on her face. "Otherwise I would likely be dead, and you would be free to arrange your alliance." She glowered down at him. "Explain yourself." 

He raised his hands and took a step backwards, a single bead of sweat rolling down his temple. "I had nothing to do with this, or with Cailan's negotiations with Celine. I swear it. How dare you accuse--" 

"How dare _I_?" Anora took a menacing step in his direction. "I, your queen, whom you would have seen put aside, so your precious nephew could marry Queen Celine? A plan, by the way, which I had not yet mentioned, so how did you know about it? You and Cailan together would have handed Ferelden back into Orlesian hands but for a fortuitously timed darkspawn invasion!" He shrunk even further away from her, and suddenly he looked very small. Small, and old, and powerless. "You may have had no part in this assassination plot, but you would have seen me removed in disgrace once before. I cannot trust that you will not try again. Get out, Eamon. Get out of this palace, and never return. Your services are no longer required." 

His mouth fell open. "But Alistair himself named me chancellor--" 

"And I am un-naming you." Anora crossed her arms. "Or are you denying my authority to make such a decision?" 

Eamon opened his mouth again, looked around the room at hostile, bemused, bewildered faces, and then closed it, shaking his head. "No, your majesty. But I should hope that King Alistair--" 

"That I would what?" Alistair's voice rang out from the left, side door opening behind him. All eyes turned to him as he mounted the stairs, toward the throne, a quizzical expression on his face. Anora raised her chin, and he met her gaze, raised his eyebrows in question. She stared back at him, as if daring him to reprimand her; he lifted his shoulder in a tiny shrug. 

"That you would have something to say about this outrage!" Eamon slammed his fist against his thigh. "Do you condone your wife's decision to remove me from my office?" 

Alistair paused, tipped his head to the side. Anora stared hard at him, waiting, willing him to agree. Then he shrugged. "I trust _the queen's_ judgment." His jaw tightened, and he looked a quick dagger at Eamon, a reprimand for not using Anora's correct title. "The queen speaks with my voice, just as I speak with hers. If she has asked you to remove yourself, then go. _Now._ " 

Eamon visibly deflated, his shoulders dropping, his chest caving in. "As you wish, your majesty." He looked at Anora, the anger in his eyes replaced with resignation. "If you change your mind, I am but a messenger away, in Redcliffe." He lowered his chin and trudged down the hall, walking out with only a quick backwards glance to Alistair; Alistair looked back, calm but firm, shaking his head, as Eamon slipped out the doors. 

Anora raised her chin, looked around the room. Every eye was on her now, no one daring even to breathe. "Justice has been done," she proclaimed. "If anyone is found to have been conspiring with these assassins, we will do further justice. Is that clear?" 

No one moved but to nod. 

She let out her breath and took her seat, lowering herself back to the throne. Alistair took his place by her side, resting his hand on the back of the chair, watching as the subdued crowd dispersed, the quiet ringing more loudly against the stone halls than any noise could have. 

-x- 

When the last person was gone, Alistair let out a heavy sigh. "Well. That's done, then. For good or ill." 

Anora twisted in her seat to look up at him. "I should have known you would disagree." 

"In truth, I don't know how I feel." Alistair shrugged. "Eamon-- has old fashioned ideas. And is understandably less nervous about Orlais than some. Maybe you should have looked harder for evidence tying him to the assassination attempt. But maybe not. Taking decisive action is important, too." He knelt beside her. "You did what you thought was right. I can't fault you for that." He stroked a hand across her cheek. "But perhaps, like my negotiation strategies, we can discuss it in advance next time." 

And with that he turned and walked away, heavy wooden door falling closed behind him with a soft snick. Anora stayed on the throne, cheek still tingling in the wake of his fingers, the cut on the other side aching. She had made a powerful enemy in Eamon today, but Alistair had taken her side and had promised to support her. The tradeoff she had chosen, a risk worth taking. Wasn't it? She lifted her hand and traced the line of Alistair's touch, then lowered it to the cool stone arm of her throne. One by one, the torches burned out; she stood from the throne and left the room in darkness. 


End file.
